


In Motion

by Fyre



Series: His Master's Son [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, one simply needs to be educated the right way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Motion

**Author's Note:**

> This is set before the marriage Rose for Bellamy, so probably about 6-7 years into the relationship, where they know each other well, but occasionally still surprise one another :D

The first thing that Bellamy became aware of was the sound of pages turning.

Sleep slowly drew back its mantle from him, and he drowsily opened his eyes. Rab had stoked the fire, giving the small house a comfortable, warming glow.

In the bed, however, he was alone.

Furs and a thick, patchwork quilt covered him snugly, but didn’t please quite as well as the warmth provided by his lover’s body. The trouble was that even now, in the depths of dark winter, Rab rose at the same time as he did in summer, far before the dawn.

He lifted his head from the bed with a yawn, looking over to the chair before the fire.

Rab was seated there, close enough to use the light from the flames to pore over a book. It made Bellamy’s heart soar to see him do so. They had spent so many long nights when - rather than loving one another - he spent hours teaching Rab his letters, so they might correspond when he had to go to town.

Rab snorted suddenly, slapping the book closed.

Bellamy leaned up on his forearms. “Is something the matter?” he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep. 

“Ye brought me a book of nonsense,” Rab said, tossing the small volume towards him. It landed on the softened pillow with a muted thump. 

“It’s not nonsense, you hairy great brute,” Bellamy said indignantly. “It’s poetry.”

Rab sprawled back in the chair. “Aye,” he said grumpily. “All wee lines that dinnae make sense. It’s like the frills on your fancy shirts. Looks nice, but disnae have any reason for being as frilly as it is.”

“Frilly…” Bellamy sat up in outrage. “Have you no romance in your soul, you daft bugger?”

“I know your arse is one of the grandest sights in the land,” Rab said. He grinned when Bellamy flushed. “See? I can romance ye well enough.”

Bellamy swung his legs out from beneath the furs, shivering only briefly at the light chill of the air on his skin. His shirt was rucked up about his legs and he smoothed it down to shield himself from the worst of the coldness. “I will make you a wager,” he said. 

Rab grinned at him, leaning around the back of the chair with a glint in his eyes. “Aye?”

“Aye,” Bellamy said haughtily. “I will make you see why I enjoy poetry so, and you will enjoy it too.”

“I dinnae believe that possible,” Rab said with a knowing smirk. “What do I get when I win?”

“If,” Bellamy said, “If you win, you may have me to do anything you want of me, without hesitation or questions.”

Rab’s lips parted, and he nodded hungrily.

For all that they played and laughed and tussled abed, Bellamy often caught Rab looking at him with a predatory expression in his dark eyes, as if he was contemplating something so wicked and sinful that it might be refused. It was unlikely that it would be, after so many years of being happy together, yet Rab still hesitated, as if he feared refusal.

“And if I win,” Bellamy said, “the same reward applies.”

“Done,” Rab said, his grin turning wolfish, his eyes gleaming.

Bellamy rose from the bed, the stone floor cold beneath his bare feet, his shirt loose to his knees. “There is a condition,” he murmured. “For poetry isn’t made to be read. It’s made to be heard.” He snared his cravat from the back of Rab’s chair. “You must cover your eyes.”

“Ye just want me to look the fool,” Rab said with a snort of amusement.

Bellamy dangled a length of the cravat over one hand. “Indulge me.”

Rab rolled his eyes expressively, then closed them. “As ye will,” he said.

Bellamy twined the cravat around Rab’s eyes, tying it behind his head. “It’s not too tight?”

“It’ll do,” Rab replied, settling back in the chair.

Bellamy wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. It was… distracting just how attractive Rab could look in naught but a half-open shirt and a blindfold. It helped little that Rab was inclined to sit with his legs splayed in such an inviting manner.

“Well?” Rab said after a moment or two of too much silence. The conceited bugger was smirking.

“You’re a bastard,” Bellamy informed him.

“Known for it,” Rab drawled, pushing his toes into the fur rug before the fire. “Now, do ye plan to bore me to death or are ye going to spare me the poetry?”

Bellamy bristled. “Hush,” he murmured. “I will recite for you in my own time.”

He approached the fireplace, bracing one hand upon the mantle, and watched Rab, the silence deepening but for the crackle of the flames. He toyed with a dozen poems in his mind, then smiled quietly at one best suited to his lover.

He returned to stand before Rab, and could see the poacher in him listening well. Rab knew exactly where he stood, and he made no effort to keep his shirt from rustling as he knelt betwixt Rab’s splayed legs.

He did not touch, of course, for that would be cheating.

“O,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual by a degree, warm and intimate, “wert thou in the cauld blast, on yonder lea, on yonder lea.” He leaned closer, that his breath might carry the very words and lowered his pitch further still. “My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee,” he sighed softly, and saw gooseflesh rise in pricks along the bare flesh of Rab’s thighs. “I’d shelter thee.”

Rab made scarce a sound, though his throat bobbed wildly as he swallowed, and he shifted upon the chair, one hand, then the other wrapping about the arms. His movement drew his own shirt up enough to bare a little more of his thigh.

“Or,” Bellamy breathed, his lips scarce a whisper from his lover’s flesh, “did misfortune’s bitter storms, around thee blaw…” It was wickedness, he knew, but he blew so softly that Rab nigh flinched, the chair creaking, and he heard Rab’s own breath catch in his throat. “Around thee blaw,” he continued softly. “The bield should be my bosom…” He knelt slowly up, and let his own shirt brush loose against Rab’s inner thighs. “To share it a’…” His fingertips ghosted upon the back of Rab’s hands, scarce touching. “To share it a’…”

“Bay…” Rab’s voice was hoarse, taut.

Bellamy’s eyes flicked downwards, a twitch of triumph upon his lips. “I’m no done yet, love,” he whispered. “Will you no have me done?” 

“By God, ye bastard,” Rab moaned. “Ye’d have me dead from want.”

For that, Bellamy felt some manner of reward was earned, and leaned close enough to drag his lips soft upon Rab’s. Rab leaned forward demandingly, trying to claim a deeper kiss, but Bellamy drew back, his hands clasping Rab’s wrists in an iron grip, cautioning.

“You must take heed first,” he murmured. “I must finish, Rab, else you will not understand it all.”

“Bay-” Rab protested.

“All or naught,” Bellamy whispered delightedly, watching his lover squirm against the warmed wood of his ancient chair. “Shall I finish and let you be done? Or shall neither of us find our ending?”

“All,” Rab’s voice was little more than a bestial growl.

That earned another brief, teasing kiss, and Rab tried to claim him once more.

Bellamy brushed his cheek against his lover’s. “Or,” he whispered, his voice so soft, so very intimate that Rab near stopped breathing to listen, “were I in the wildest waste, sae black and bare…” Bellamy’s lips plucked at Rab’s earlobe. “Sae black,” he whispered, one hand moving to slip beneath Rab’s loose shirt, tracing across his chest, “and bare.”

Rab’s thighs closed about his sides, making it impossible to retreat, and Bellamy chuckled softly, his thumb grazing upon a hardened nipple. 

He lowered his head, and breathed deep the scent of his lover, and sighed close upon his throat. “The desert were a Paradise, if you were there.” It was shameless and wicked and teased and his body - from belly upwards - pressed so close to Rab that he could nigh feel the blood throb in Rab’s eager cock. He shivered in delight, near moaning, “If you were there.”

Rab shifted, making small, breathless, greedy sounds, rubbing himself against Bellamy through the twin barriers of their shirts.

“Or,” Bellamy whispered, drawing his cheek back up and his lips to Rab’s ear, “were I monarch o’ the globe, wi’ thee to reign…” His breath caught when Rab’s lips brushed over his throat, baring teeth, grazing flesh. “W-wi’ thee to reign…” His hand stuttered on Rab’s ribs, and Rab suckled upon his throat, small grunts of want escaping him as he ground himself against Bellamy’s belly. He had near forgotten the words, as his head fell back. “The brightest jewel…” he breathed, twisting the word to suit best, “in my crown, wad be my King…” A small keen hitched in his throat as Rab’s hand tangled into his hair. “W-wad be… my King…”

Rab’s other hand was bunched in Bellamy’s shirt, and he tugged on it, dragging it up, his hand grasping mercilessly at Bellamy’s arse, holding him tighter as he rubbed against him. His eagerness stirred Bellamy’s own, to say naught of the bruising bites and kisses he was lavishing upon Bellamy’s throat.

“Fuck, Rab,” Bellamy groaned, groping down blindly with his own hand for his cock, reaching beneath Rab’s broad thigh.

“No more?” Rab panted against his neck. “No more words?”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Bellamy moaned, his hand tightening around his own cock. “I give you beauty, you filthy bugger, and you’d fuck me blind.”

Rab lifted his head, his features flushed, and though he was blind to the world, turned his face full upon Bellamy. “Give me your words, Bay,” he whispered. “It’s your words that matter.”

Bellamy’s lips trembled, and he found his mind blank. “Jesus Christ, Rab,” he whispered, “How the fuck am I to think with you saying such things?”

Rab bit upon Bellamy’s lower lip and tugged. “Ye gave me beauty,” he panted, his hips moving in steady rubs against Bellamy’s belly. “Now profane me, you filthy little cock.” He bit a little harder, earning a gasp, then licked the offended lip. “I know ye can.”

Bellamy stared blindly at him, his hand tight about his prick. “Ye are a lecherous perverse fucking sodomite,” he breathed out, his formal accent slipping, his voice thick with want. “I’d suck ye dry, if I thought ye’d be spent and give me a moment rest…” Rab nodded hungrily, squeezing Bellamy’s arse harder. “I’ve watched ye, ye ken, when ye work. By God, I’d have put ye to the wall…” 

“Christ, Bay…”

Bellamy tangled his hair in the thicket of Rab’s hair and the cravat that bound him, the other still moving on his cock. “I dreamed of ye,” he whispered, his brow pressed to Rab’s. “When I was but a lad. I dreamed ye turned me upon my belly. I dream ye took me and I wept with want of it.”

“Aye?” Rab’s breath was quickening, mingling with his, they were panting, trembling, and his hand squeezed hard, drawing himself out. 

“Aye,” Bellamy whispered. “When I saw ye next, I ran, I ran to the stables, Rab. I ran, and I took myself in hand, as now.” He shuddered, as Rab’s hand slipped from his hair, slid down his arm, squeezing above the elbow. “I imagined yer hand about mine, Rab, imagined ye doing for me, as I do…”

Rab’s mouth found his, clumsy and wet and hungry. Bellamy felt him shudder, felt the wetness dampen both their shirts, as he spent him, his grip on Bellamy’s arm and arse hard enough to bruise, enough to make him shiver.

“Fuck, Bay…” Rab panted. “Fuck.” He dragged his lips gracelessly over Bellamy’s. “Fine words…”

Bellamy’s hand remained tight on his prick, his own breath quivering. “Naught but truth.”

Rab drew back, silent for a long moment. His loose limbs splayed wider, forcing Bellamy to release his own prick, but he scarce had a moment to protest, when Rab caught him beneath his arms and hauled him up, setting him upon one of Rab’s own broad thighs.

“Truth?” Rab whispered.

Bellamy nodded, shivering violently as Rab’s hand pushed up under his damped shirt, following the line of his thigh to seek out his cock.

“Tell me how,” Rab growled, soft, his nose rubbing against Bellamy’s ear.

Bellamy whined between his teeth as Rab’s hot hand closed about him. “Y-ye’d take me fast and hold me,” he whispered, scarce able to breathe. His hand covered Rab’s beneath his shirt, guiding him. “Yer thumb would stroke so…”

“So?” Rab’s thumb moved, slick and knowing.

Bellamy nodded unsteadily, his brow to Rab’s. “Aye… oh, aye…” He curled his fingers tighter into Rab’s hair, whimpering again, softly, wanton, as Rab licked at his throat, then bit down, marking. “Christ…”

“What else?” Rab murmured, teeth and lips grazing Bellamy’s throat.

“Y-ye’d kiss me,” Bellamy whispered. “I didn’t know how, but with yer lips…”

Hot kisses pushed his head back and teeth worried at his bared throat, making him shiver harder and buck against Rab’s hand. Rab stroked him, slow and steady, torturously, and his hand tightened about his lover’s pleadingly.

“Rab, please…”

“What else?” Rab asked, his wicked hand closing fast and moving not an inch.

Bellamy tugged on his hair, shaking to his toes. “Else?”

“Aye,” Rab breathed against his damped throat. “What would ye have me do?”

“Look at me,” Bellamy whispered, “and know that I love you.”

Rab was silent for a moment. “Let me see you then, Bay,” he spoke soft.

Bellamy’s hand trembled so much he could scarce loose the cravat. It fell away and Rab’s eyes were dark and golden by the firelight. There was such love in them that Bellamy trembled, and with scarce another touch, he spilled himself in Rab’s hand, as he was pulled into a kiss.

Rab continued to kiss him lazily, indulgently, his hand drawing on Bellamy until he was truly spent, and they were both sticky and damp, but utterly sated.

“My shirt,” Bellamy murmured, as Rab wiped his hand. “It is quite ruined.”

Rab nuzzled at his hair. “All yer own fault,” he said drowsily. “Yer nancy poetry did it.” He helped Bellamy to his feet, and pulled the damp fabric over his head, leaving him shivering in naught but his skin. “To bed wi’ ye.”

Bellamy contemplated protesting until Rab shed his own shirt and followed him back towards the bed.

The furs were still warm and soft, and Rab sprawled alongside him, their legs tangling beneath the blankets and furs.

“It wasn’t such a hardship, then?” Bellamy asked around a yawn, as Rab nestled against his back. 

“Poetry?” Rab nuzzled his ear. “Or the filth ye think when no one is watching?”

Bellamy snorted, jabbing him drowsily with his elbow. “Poetry.”

Rab grinned against his ear. “Oh, it’ll do,” he murmured as the fire faded to a dull glow. “But I prefer the filth.”

In the warm darkness, Bellamy blushed.

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious, the poem is "O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast" by Robert Burns. Basic summary of it is "If you were in the storm, I'd wrap you in my kilt. If misfortune swept on you, I'd shield you with my body. If I were in the wasteland, your presence would make the desert paradise, and if I were King of the world, the most precious thing in my world would be my Queen". Bay paraphrased a wee bit ;)


End file.
